THE 


A  NATIONAL  QUARTERLY 


JANUARY  1921 


Germany  Since  the  Revolution       .         The 

Zionism  To-Day 

A  Group  of  Poems 

The  Masterful  Puritan 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  Samoa  . 
Religion  in  England  after  the  War  . 
Women  in  the  Election  . 

An  Unknown  Poet 

The  Permanent  Utility  of  Dialect  . 
The  Shepherds'  Field.  Verse 

In  the  Hunger  Districts 

Professional  Schools  of  Liberal  Education     . 

Lies  and  Liars 

The  Problem  of  the  American  Negro 

Some  Novels  of  1920 

Among  the  New  Books 


Author  of  "J* Accuse" 

.  Israel  Zangwill 

Robert  Frost 

.    Agnes  Repplier 

W.  E.  Clarke 

.    W.  R.  Inge 

.  A.  Maurice  Low 

John  Drinkwater 

Brander  Matthews 

Edward  Bliss  Reed 

.   Edith  Hoyt 

Archibald  MacLeish 

.    Raphael  Demos 

.  Franz  Boas 

Wilbur  Cross 


Edited  by  WILBUR  CROSS 

PUBLISHED  QUARTERLY  BY  THE 

YALE  PUBLISHING  ASSOCIATION,  INC. 

$3.00  a  year  75  cents  a  copy 


ii  THE   YALE   REVIEW 


IN  buying  floor  coverings,  furniture, 
and  decorative  fabrics,  one  should 
remember  that  stores  operating 
solely  as  clearing  houses  can  have  but 
a  superficial  knowledge  of  the  goods 
they  sell. 

Sloane's,  on  the  other  hand,  are  iden- 
tified with  the  actual  production  of  a 
great  proportion  of  their  own  stocks, 
and  possess  that  true  sense  of  values 
which  proceeds  from  first-hand 
knowledge  rather  than  from  second- 
hand information. 

This  also  enables  us,  in  selecting 
merchandise  from  other  sources  than 
our  own,  to  pronounce  judgment 
instead  of  having  to  solicit  it. 


W.   &   J.    SLOANE 

FLOOR  COVERINGS    -    FABRICS    -    FURNITURE 
FIFTH    AVENUE    at    47th     STREET 


When  writing  to  advertisers  kindly  mention  The  Yale  Review 


THE   YALE  REVIEW  m 


THE 

YALE  REVIEW 

A  NATIONAL  QUARTERLY 

Edited  by  WILBUR  CROSS 


JANUARY,   1921 

Germany  Since  the  Revolution    .         The  Author  of  "J*  Accuse"  225 

Zionism  To-Day Israel  Zangwill  246 

A  Group  of  Poems Robert  Frost  258 

The  Masterful  Puritan Agnes  Repplier  262 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  Samoa       .        .  W.  E.  Clarke  275 

Religion  in  England  after  the  War      .        .        .          W.  R.  Inge  297 

Women  in  the  Election         .        .        .        .         A.  Maurice  Low  311 

An  Unknown  Poet         .        .        .  .        John  Drinkwater  323 

The  Permanent  Utility  of  Dialect       .        .      Brander  Matthews  338 

The  Shepherds'  Field.     Verse      .        .        .     Edward  Bliss  Reed  349 

In  the  Hunger  Districts Edith  Hoyt  351 

Professional  Schools  of  Liberal  Education    Archibald  MacLeish  362 

Lies  and  Liars Raphael  Demos  373 

The  Problem  of  the  American  Negro          .        .          Franz  Boas  384 

Some  Novels  of  1920 Wilbur  Cross  396 

AMONG  THE  NEW  BOOKS 

Mr.  Wells's  Gospel  of  History     .        .    James  Harvey  Robinson  412 

Revolutionized  Germany      ....         Charles  Seymour  418 

From  a  Castle  Window         ....         Vida  D.  Scudder  424 

Songsters  in  English  Lanes  ....      Dallas  Lore  Sharp  429 

The  Far  East  in  1920    ....         W.  Reginald  Wheeler  431 

The  Life  of  a  Fighter Louis  Howland  435 

Admirals,  Discreet  and  Indiscreet       .        .     William  0.  Stevens  437 

A  French  View  of  Poe   .  .  John  Gould  Fletcher  444 


Copyright,  1920,  by  The  Yale  Publishing  Association,  Inc. 


A   GROUP  OF  POEMS 

By  ROBERT  FROST 


Shook  down  on  me 


From  a  hemlock  tree 


Has  given  my  heart 

A  change  of  mood 
And  saved  some  part 

Of  a  day  I  had  rued. 

The  Onset 

Always  the  same  when  on  a  fated  night 
At  last  the  gathered  snow  lets  down  as  white 
As  maybe  in  dark  woods  and  with  a  song 
It  shall  not  make  again  all  winter  long 
Of  hissing  on  the  yet  uncovered  ground, 
I  almost  stumble  looking  up  and  round, 
As  one  who  overtaken  by  the  end 
Gives  up  his  errand  and  lets  death  descend 
Upon  him  where  he  is,  with  nothing  done 
To  evil,  no  important  triumph  won 
More  than  if  life  had  never  been  begun. 

Yet  all  the  precedent  is  on  my  side : 

I  know  that  winter  death  has  never  tried 

The  earth  but  it  has  failed:  the  snow  may  heap 
In  long  storms  an  undrifted  four  feet  deep 


A  GROUP  OF  POEMS  259 

As  measured  against  maple,  birch,  and  oak; 
It  cannot  check  the  Peeper's  silver  croak; 

And  I  shall  see  the  snow  all  go  down  hill 

In  water  of  a  slender  April  rill 
That  flashes  tail  through  last  year's  withered  brake 
And  dead  weeds  like  a  disappearing  snake. 

Nothing  will  be  left  white  but  here  a  birch 

And  there  a  clump  of  houses  with  a  church. 


A  $tar  in  a  Stone-Boat 

Never  tell  me  that  not  one  star  of  all 

That  slip  from  heaven  at  night  and  softly  fall 

Has  been  picked  up  with  stones  to  build  a  wall. 

Some  laborer  found  one  faded  and  stone  cold, 
And  saving  that  its  weight  suggested  gold, 
And  tugged  it  from  his  first  too  certain  hold, 

He  noticed  nothing  in  it  to  remark. 

He  was  not  used  to  handling  stars  thrown  dark 

And  lifeless  from  an  interrupted  arc. 

He  did  not  recognize  in  that  smooth  coal 
The  one  thing  palpable  besides  the  soul 
To  penetrate  the  air  in  which  we  roll. 

He  did  not  see  how  like  a  flying  thing 

It  brooded  ant-eggs,  and  had  one  large  wing, 

One  not  so  large  for  flying  in  a  ring, 

And  a  long  Bird  of  Paradise's  tail, 

(Though  these  when  not  in  use  to  fly  and  trail 

It  drew  back  in  its  body  like  a  snail)  ; 

Nor  know  that  he  might  move  it  from  the  spot 
The  harm  was  done  :  from  having  been  star  shot 
The  very  nature  of  the  soil  was  hot 


260  THE  YALE  REVIEW 

And  burning  to  yield  flowers  instead  of  grain, 
Flowers  fanned  and  not  put  out  by  all  the  rain 
Poured  on  them  by  his  prayers  prayed  in  vain. 

He  moved  it  roughly  with  an  iron  bar, 
He  loaded  an  old  stone-boat  with  the  star 
And  not,  as  you  might  think,  a  flying  car, 

Such  as  even  poets  would  admit  perforce 
More  practical  than  Pegasus  the  horse 
If  it  could  put  a  star  back  in  its  course. 

He  dragged  it  through  the  ploughed  ground  at  a  pace 
But  faintly  reminiscent  of  the  race 
Of  jostling  rock  in  interstellar  space. 

It  went  for  building-stone,  and  I  as  though 

Commanded  in  a  dream  forever  go 

To  right  the  wrong  that  this  should  have  been  so. 

Yet  ask  where  else  it  could  have  gone  as  well, 
I  do  not  know — I  cannot  stop  to  tell : 
He  might  have  left  it  lying  where  it  fell. 

From  following  walls  I  never  lift  my  eye 
Except  at  night  to  places  in  the  sky 
Where  showers  of  charted  meteors  let  fly. 

Some  may  know  what  they  seek  in  school  and  church, 
And  why  they  seek  it  there;  for  what  I  search 
I  must  go  measuring  stone  walls,  perch  on  perch; 

Sure  that  though  not  a  star  of  death  and  birth, 
So  not  to  be  compared,  perhaps,  in  worth 
To  such  resorts  of  life  as  Mars  and  Earth, — 


A  GROUP  OF  POEMS  261 

Though  not,  I  say,  a  star  of  death  and  sin, 
It  yet  has  poles,  and  only  needs  a  spin 
To  show  its  worldly  nature  and  begin 

To  chafe  and  shuffle  in  my  calloused  palm 
And  run  off  in  strange  tangents  with  my  arm 
As  fish  do  with  the  line  in  first  alarm. 

Such  as  it  is,  it  promises  the  prize 
Of  the  one  world  complete  in  any  size 
That  I  am  like  to  compass,  fool  or  wise. 

Misgiving 

All  crying,  "We  will  go  with  you,  O  Wind," 

The  foliage  follow  him,  leaf  and  stem, 
But  a  sleep  oppresses  them  as  they  go, 

And  they  end  by  bidding  him  stay  with  them. 

Since  ever  they  flung  abroad  in  spring, 

The  leaves  have  promised  themselves  this  flight, 

Who  now  would  fain  seek  sheltering  wall, 
Or  thicket,  or  hollow  place  for  the  night. 

And  now  they  answer  the  summoning  blast 

With  an  ever  vaguer  and  vaguer  stir, 
Or,  at  utmost,  a  little  reluctant  whirl 

That  drops  them  no  further  than  where  they  were. 

I  only  hope  that  when  I  am  free, 

As  they  are  free,  to  go  in  quest 
Of  the  knowledge  beyond  the  bounds  of  life, 

It  may  not  seem  better  to  me  to  rest. 


XLIV 


A  PROCESSION  OF    HAPPY  Cl    [LDREN  :  • 


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